


The Simple Silver Band

by Dichotomous_Dragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Adoribull Holiday Exchange, Dorian and Bull fail at being a couple, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, slight angst with a happy ending, their friends intervene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian wants Bull. Bull wants Dorian.  It really <b>ought</b> to be that simple, and predictably isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Simple Silver Band

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uniqueinalltheworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/gifts).



> My offering for the Adoribull Holiday Exchange, a gift for the utterly fantastic UniqueInAllTheWorld! :)
> 
> (Now with proper italics, because how do you even copy/paste into Tumblr and make that shrimp work.)

It wasn’t the first thing he noticed.

The first thing Bull noticed: the man...no, the _mage_ , was poetry in motion, staff cutting down demons in as martial a display as Bull himself had provided cutting down ‘Vints on the Storm Coast. Bull could smell the ozone in the air that meant ‘magic’ but the man in the Chantry wasn’t using it. Either tapped out or holding it in reserve, didn’t seem to matter. The bladed end of the staff tore into a demon as he spun, smashing an attacking shade with the focus stone at the apex of the same movement.

The second thing? He was fucking gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, well-muscled, if the chest peeking from below the white silk cloak was any clue. His skin was a rich golden shade even in the eerie green light of the rift, his hair somehow perfect despite the rigorous activity. High maintenance and higher breeding stock, Bull snorted. What was it about Redcliffe that seemed to be drawing Alti these days?

The third was the voice; pleasant in timbre, cultured in accent. It resonated in the wrecked building, the tone easy, almost relaxed. But there, underneath the eloquent mannerisms and obvious flirtation was a cadence of desperation, maybe of sadness and betrayal. Bull wondered at the ease with which the mage swept from fighting to flirting; from one to the other in a blink. He was good, better than good, and knew it, every iota of his expression and movement calculated to produce the most stunning effect.

The ring was, in fact, the fourth thing Bull noticed. Thick silver and unadorned, noticeable on his left hand amidst the intricate gold on most of his other digits, it flickered in the sickly green glow. _A wedding band_. It was a shame Dorian of House Pavus was married, the Bull thought, as the five of them leapt into battle with the demons. He might be a double-agent, one more back-stabbing ‘Vint in a damn sea of them, but something about the mage was alluring in a way that had nothing to do with how hot he was.

“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are _always the worst_.” Bull growled it out loud, as much a warning to the others as to himself. He had an unhelpful weakness for ‘pretty’ and it wouldn’t do to forget it.

Even if Dorian _was_ on their side, he was clearly off-limits. 

\---

Dorian and Bull weren’t friends.

Well. It was a stretch to say _any_ one in the Inquisition was much more than a stranger at that point, but the situation with the Iron Bull was easily the worst of the lot. He’d been quick to snipe insults even as Dorian held the Chantry, waiting for the Herald and keeping the demons from spewing out into the village proper. Even after Dorian proved his prowess alongside their group, the brute’s comments remained slanderous ones.

Nevermind that the oaf was just north of _massive_ , chest and hands and _everything_ big enough to make Dorian swallow with a bit of difficulty when he’d gotten his first proper look. Yes, Dorian had a _type_ , though not one he’d ever indulged in. He was typically the larger partner during his trysts, between his height and the solid nature of his build, so he could hardly be blamed for appreciating that the man standing before him had the ability to make even _him_ feel small. At another time, he might have appreciated the comparison, but currently, he was neither foolish nor desperate enough to even entertain the possibility. Not here, nor now, nor with a _Qunari_ of all things.

The two of them were barely civil; they sniped at one another at every turn. The ride back to Redcliffe to meet Alexius had been exhausting, even with Trevelyan there to mediate. Bull had spared no effort making sure Dorian knew he was being watched. Bull hadn’t said so, not in so many words, but his jabs at Tevinter had left little doubt how he’d felt about Dorian’s presence at their side.

 

Which was why it made no sense that now, soaked from the waist down and fighting the song of red lyrium hammering against his senses, in whatever version of the world Alexius had seen fit to fling them into, this Bull did not taunt Dorian with inane comments. They’d freed him already tainted, veins of red running like fault lines between the expansive muscles of his chest. That he was sick was part of it, of course, but Dorian could not help but notice that Bull was watching him, weight in that crimson-tinged solitary gaze of his. Even as they freed the others, stumbled through ruined corridor after ruined corridor, and slew every single enemy they came across, Dorian felt the Qunari’s eye on him like a physical touch. Personal. 

“What is it?!” Dorian finally hissed, stalking over to Bull when they’d stopped for a breather. The Inquisitor was busy shuffling through diary pages looking for clues. Leliana and Varric were watching for Venatori in the hall and Dorian, stretched rather thin and very valiantly hiding it, had had quite enough. “I am _trying_ to protect her and undo this, this _insanity_...Do you doubt my motives even now?”

“You aren’t what I thought you were,” Bull replied. His face revealed nothing, sunken in sickness and shadowed as it was. The lyrium had carved his rugged features into deep pits and furrows that were nowhere near as vibrant (and _handsome_ , damn him) as he’d been before. The change churned something in Dorian’s gut that he quickly quashed with bravado.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean, pray tell?” Dorian demanded. Bull’s gaze softened somehow and the look he gave trapped Dorian’s breath in his chest, all the fiery tone dying in a blink. The Qunari seemed bent on denying Dorian the comfort of understanding, however. He shook his head and hefted his enormous ax, moving away without further comment.

It was for the best, really. 

They were out of time.

Months of research swirled in his mind; power lit every synapse in Dorian’s brain on fire. The heat of the moment fanned into frenzy with his urgency, struggling to work Alexius’s casting in reverse from memory and the ambient feel of the pendant in his hands. Nigh impossible, frankly, but the alternative...Dorian shook his head, all options but success shoved away, and worked.

Through the fight and after, Bull caught Dorian’s eye a final time. He hefted his weapon, a small, private smile transforming his features into something resembling the man Dorian knew from their proper timeline. There was, however, something gentle and telling and altogether foreign in the look the Bull gave Dorian as he swept into battle with a roar. Again Dorian was struck with that telling tightness in his chest, temptation and something dangerously close to need trying to take root.

“ _You go, we’ll buy you time,_ ” Bull had said to Trevelyan, but he’d been looking at Dorian as he said. “ _Be a shame to waste it_.”

Dorian forced the spell into shape, conducting the magic through his entire body as the rift roared wider. Even with all his attention on his task, he had to spare the precious seconds needed to restrain the Herald as Varric’s body hit the stone entryway. The power he forced through the amulet coalesced, mana rippling everywhere around him, heavy on his tongue, burning sigils into the space behind Dorian’s eyelids as he worked.

_...Be a shame to waste it._

That _voice_ rumbled through him, a bass counterbalance to the shrieking of his nerves from the magic. Dorian turned just long enough to see Bull’s corpse land beside them, and, swallowing around a lump in his throat, thought rather the same.

Seizing Trevelyan with a hand that shook, Dorian gathered the magic around them both and pushed.  
\---

The snow was everywhere, stinging Bull’s face and eye, sliding into the gaps between his  
leather armor. Bull’s protective clothing didn’t cover much, true, but the fluffy white crap getting it in his harness (where it melted and dripped down his chest) while they slogged through feet of the stuff? That was bullshit.

It was also easier to focus on the snow than it was to think on the dozens of people they’d left cooling in Haven behind them. He split rounds with the Chargers, venturing off in sets of three to search for the Herald, and help whoever needed them. Between the wounded and the wagons getting stuck, they were plenty busy.

His eye kept wandering back to Dorian, though, despite the fatigue pulling at every muscle. He was trudging through the snow, his arms half bare. He hugged them to himself and shook so fiercely that Bull was certain he could hear it from thirty paces. 

It struck home, then, how utterly alone Dorian was. Even compared to the rest of them he was segregated. Bull watched from the corner of his eye as Dorian spoke with Mother Giselle, obviously volunteering to help with something, only to be turned away. Not gently, either. From the way the mage’s hands were shaking just keeping himself going was proving to be quite the effort, but here he was still trying to help others. Interesting.

“You doing alright, ‘Vint?” 

“Why would it concern you if I wasn’t?” Dorian snapped back. The chattering of his teeth leeched some of the bite from his tone, however.

“Because you did a damn good job back at Haven,” Bull replied honestly. Dorian stopped walking in surprise at the compliment; Bull drew closer, unable to resist the urge and dropping his hands to Dorian’s shoulders. As he'd expected Dorian was shivering badly, the skin under Bull’s fingers frigid to the touch. “Someone who fights like that? Be dumb to lose him to freezing because his fancy robes show too much skin.” For one long second, the lingering shock in Dorian’s gaze held Bull suspended. Had the mage ever looked at him like that, all open and needy? What the hell did it say that so small an honest compliment gave him such pause?

“It’s her!” Cullen’s voice cut through the whipping wind, clear as a bell and twice again as jarring.

Dorian’s face was a beautiful thing in that moment, open and honest, wide with hope followed immediately by a surge of relief. He sagged under the force of it, heavy against Bull’s grip on his shoulders. It was everything Bull could do not to crush their bodies together in a physical rendition of the flood of _want_ when Dorian looked up at him, smile radiant over the good news.

_Shit, he’s gorgeous._

Dorian got a grip on himself and pulled out of Bull’s grip, rushing to the Herald’s side as fast as his legs would take him. He didn't look back.

\---

“Nothing out here to entertain you, Dorian? That why you’re moping? Or do you just really like taking your cold footsies out on the rest of us?” 

“Leave me be, you oaf.”

“Aww c’mon ‘Vint, liven up. You’ll give yourself wrinkles if you keep scowling like that. That’d be a shame.”

“My face is none of your concern.”

“Isn’t it? I meant what I said that day, you know.”

\---

The Emprise was a desolate wasteland of frigid cold and the endless throbbing hum of red lyrium so yes, Dorian supposed he’d been rather insufferable for the duration of the trip thus far. He had a right, though! The wind was relentless, tearing at his robes as it chapped his skin.  
Not even the cold held a candle to how much he loathed the lyrium, however. It was loud, pervasive and sickening, twisting at Dorian’s inside like a demon’s claws. Digging, dragging, picking away as it called out, urging him ever closer. The path near the last camp had twined so close to the stuff he’d nearly lost his sense to it, crackling lightning and raw power and the metallic tang of blood on his tongue all at once.

Dorian didn’t need to ask Bull what he meant. He turned his face away from the brute and lifted his chin, hearing the words playing back through his head.

_The pretty ones are always the worst._

Even as he remembered, though, a different memory flared.

_...Be a shame to waste it._

_You aren’t what I thought you were._

_...Did a good job today._

_Meant what I said._

Echoes from a Bull he knew and from a Bull he’d never had a chance to. It would be so easy to be the terrible thing this Bull expected him to be, Dorian supposed, the selfish, spoiled ‘Vint. The easy tryst they would both regret.

He did not look back at the Bull as he forced his aching body on through the snow. He didn’t need to. Dorian found the landscape of those handsome features all too easy to recall of late, slipping into his thoughts unbidden. It wasn’t just his size, nor his incredible strength. No…

There was something about the gentleness in Bull’s eye when he knew his men weren’t looking, a sort of quiet fondness and pride. That care slipped out in the little gestures, the way Bull handled each of his people, the way he spoke with each one of his friends. The Ben-Hassrath had certainly refined Bull’s talents for observation, pairing his wickedly sharp mind with the skills they’d driven into him, but there was more to it than that. The big man was a people person in every sense of the word. Bull said so himself, but Dorian doubted even he knew how apt the statement truly was.

When one married Bull’s stunning depth of care with his physique (and, never forget, the Maker’s-damn _rumors_ of the Qunari’s prowess in the bedroom), Dorian found himself ever more smitten with the notion of...things. Sex, certainly. Bull was most definitely his ideal, strong enough to manhandle Dorian, who was no slouch himself. There was more to it than that, though, and none of it boded well.

The Bull was a terrible temptation but also an alluring opportunity.

 _Well, then_ , Dorian thought, and finally, _finally_ made up his mind. 

It would be a shame to waste it, even if he could only have it but once.

\---

Of course his Father would pick the moment he’d finally decided to reach out and grab something he wanted to storm back into Dorian’s life. Because Halward Pavus had never been anything if not exceedingly good at reminding Dorian why grabbing for the proverbial gold ring was never a good thing...this whole Maker forsaken meeting was proof of that. Proof that one more time his father would lie and scheme to get his own way and then mask it behind a facade of concern and love. Kaffas, when would he ever learn?

Storming out of the bar, Dorian barely spared a glance at Bull before dismissing him as just another bad decision waiting to be made. Because really, what did he and Bull have in common besides some lusty glances and extremely awkward flirting? They’d fuck and then Bull would be on to his next conquest and Dorian would be left behind, again, wondering why he was so damn easy to forget. 

Making his way through the crowds of people Dorian only stopped when the land gave way to the wet depths of Lake Calenhad. Idly twisting the silver ring on his finger over and over again, Dorian watched the sun turn the lake into a sea of gold as he tried to decide why he’d ever thought giving in to the temptation of The Iron Bull was a good idea.

 

Bull was a Ben-Hassrath, through and through. He’d been trained to observe, formulate, and then act. So when he saw Dorian a couple of hours after he’d left the Gull and Lantern, masks and flourishes so resolutely in place it was as though it were their first meeting in Redcliffe all over again, he got that now familiar ache back with a vengeance. Dorian was distant and aloof, rampantly trying to hide his emotions behind bravado so polished it felt like they were at court. He was clearly hurting, lines of tension setting veridium in his spine even as it rounded his shoulders down and in.

Bull took stock, riding a few horse lengths back. Dorian was handsome and powerful and talented. He was also, at that moment, more than a little bit broken. Bull wanted him, had wanted him for months, wanted to touch and taste and take the mage apart piece by piece, just to reassemble him afterwards. He had no doubt he could make Dorian feel good, banish whatever Tevinter bullshit was eating at him so he could enjoy himself in the moment.

...but Dorian was also not on the market, not for what Bull found himself wanting. Not for the kind of comfort Bull wanted to give him. So Bull did what came natural to him and fell back on his training, quashing what he wanted and focusing instead on what Dorian would need: consistency from those around him. 

So he sniped, and he teased, and he prodded, and Dorian responded in kind, albeit with less vitriol than usual. Going around and around provided exactly the distraction Dorian needed to get out of his head. It just didn’t do a damn thing to banish thoughts of the pretty mage from Bull’s.

\---

“Right. So. When you gonna stop acting the tit and go jump the big guy’s bones?” Sera asked at the worst possible moment: Dorian choked on his ale, face going red from more than just the lack of oxygen. Blackwall thumped his back until he stopped sputtering long enough to glare daggers at the elf, wheezing air back into his lungs.

“I beg your pardon but that is _none of your business_ ,” he hissed.

“So you admit to thinking on it.” Dorian turned his glare to the Warden beside him but Blackwall just shrugged his broad shoulders, taking a deep pull from his tankard as he did. “No one’s judging you, lad.” His voice lowered seriously. “We’d rather see you happy.”

“Damn straight,” Sera agreed, leaning conspiratorially across the table, “Or at least get you _laid,_ right? Plenty of us who chase our own bits around here, so whatcha worried about?”

It said something that Dorian barely spared a glance for who might hear them talking about a topic that had no business being voiced. The very line of thought deflated him. His shoulders slumped, both hands clutched around his tankard.

“I should think it obvious by now that The Iron Bull wants nothing to do with me.”

“Why do you say that?”  
-  
It had happened like this.

Dorian had been on the front line and gotten himself knocked out cold, a shield bash catching him in the scant moments between barriers. He’d collapsed to the snow, arm and side a white wall of pain, conscious long enough to see a huge armored brute raise his sword overhead to strike the final blow.

Much to his surprise Dorian had woken blearily not long after, enveloped in a pair of muscular arms. Bull had stroked his cheek lightly with one thumb, gentle motions just to soothe until Dorian’s eyelids fluttered open. It had been nearly as painful as the blow that had nearly killed him, seeing the wash of relief across those features. Dorian found himself wanting to see Bull’s softer gazes on him more often, a desire that rekindled in his chest almost desperately.

Dorian had leaned up, acting before his nerves and his good sense could betray him, Bull’s scarred lips _right there_ \--  
-

“And he pulled back from me as though I were a plague beast,” Dorian finished quietly. He cleared his throat. “He said, ‘You got too close to the front again, ‘Vint. Keep your pretty ass in the back ranks before someone messes it up for you.’” A smile he didn’t mean forced itself onto Dorian’s face. “Given that, I will thank you to keep your ill-informed meddling to yourselves.” 

He set his shoulders, finished his ale, and stood to leave, emanating more resolve than he actually possessed. Sera and Blackwall both looked at him with odd expressions. Dorian didn’t wait to contemplate why, fleeing back to his quarters and several bottles of terrible wine.

\---

“Chief, you know I hate Tevinter, right?”

“Not exactly news, Krem.”

“Right, well. I thought I'd mention, I won't think less of you for liking things from there. Plenty of other stuff to point out--your bosoms, for one.”

“...right. You feeling okay? Or did Skinner blindside you in practice again?”

“I'm just _saying_ , not _everything_ from Tevinter is utter shite.”

“Well yeah, there's you, and that Sun Vint-1 isn't too shabby either.”

“You're being deliberately obtuse, you big ass.”

“And you need to stop hanging out with the boss. You're starting to sound like a prissy noble.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you'd _bang one_ , I wouldn't have to hang out with them getting cultured. Besides, you know you want to.”

“What, get cultured? Nah.”

“I meant bang the prissy nobles. One in particular.”

“...not gonna happen, Krem.”

“And why not?”

“He’s not available.”

“Neither were that dowager’s three daughters, or that exporter in Denerim, but it didn’t stop you then. Or any of three dozen times since.”

“...it’s different.”

“It’s really not.”  
\---

 

“He watches you too, you know.”

Dorian startled at the words drawled far too close to his ear. His fingers clenched at the stone window casing as if he could somehow sink right into the walls of the keep. As though his grip on the masonry made up for the grip he’d lost on himself; as if he could resolve fact that the second-to-last man he wanted to see in all of Skyhold had just caught him staring at the last man he wanted to see. Or rather, the last man he _wished_ he didn’t want to see. Unfortunately, his heart seemed unwilling to agree with his mind on that one.

Only when he was certain that any trace of red had faded from his cheeks did Dorian turn, managing to achieve the perfect blend of ice and dismissal in his tone when he muttered, “What can I do for you, Cremisius?”

“Not so much what you can do for me,” the warrior replied easily. “It’s more ‘what you can do for the Chief.’”   
Lovely. So now Bull had his second running his errands for him. A chill went through Dorian at the thought of Bull sending Krem to request that he quit mooning over him...not that he was mooning of course, the Scion of House Pavus would never resort to something so common as mooning. Still, he could think of nothing else The Iron Bull could possibly want of him and rather than voice his concerns he just arched one brow at his fellow ‘Vint.

Krem rolled his eyes in response, shifting his weight a couple of times before sighing deeply. “Look, the Chief will kill me if he finds out I’m here, but...the big lug likes you. Like...really likes you. I’ve seen you staring at him despite that ring you wear and since you never talk about your wife I’m assuming it’s just one of those fucked up “marriage in name only” things you fucking Alti are so damned proud of. So if…”

“Excuse me?” Dorian managed to stutter out, his tone neither as icy or as dismissive as before. 

“Listen, I’m just saying if you want the Chief and the Chief wants you, you should both do something about it and put the rest of us out of our misery.”

Bull wanted him? Bull wanted _**him**_. And Bull thought he was _married_ for Andraste’s sake. Staring down at his own hands, Dorian’s eyes zero’d in on his ring finger. Kaffas. Suddenly that day when Bull had pulled away from him made sense...which of course made no sense because _really_? They had been fighting together for months and Dorian had never mentioned a wife, estranged or otherwise, so Bull had just _assumed_ …

Growling deep in his throat, Dorian swept past Cremisius without giving the man another thought, his mind focused on finding The Iron Bull and making sure the man knew just what a fucking idiot he was.

 

“Good. Again,” Bull encouraged, planting his feet and raising his shield up to defend against Dalish’s staff. His ‘not mage’ had developed a bit of envy over Dorian’s prowess at actually utilizing his staff as more than a conduit for his magic and Bull was only too willing to help her sharpen her skills. The fact that spending time in the training ring allowed him to glance up at the window that looked into Dorian’s nook in the library had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“You Maker-forsaken moron,” Dorian’s growled words had Dalish’s eyes widening in surprise even as Bull spun around to face the mage who was currently stalking towards him. Dorian’s usual look of bored indulgence had morphed into indignant anger as he stormed right up to Bull and poked him in the chest. “You see a ring and just assume that I am married? _Married_ , for Andraste’s sake. What would that say about me? As if any hypothetical wife I _might_ have, Maker help her, wouldn’t even rate a mention? Not _one word_ during the last _five_ months I’ve spent fighting at your side?”

Taking advantage of Dorian’s brief pause to draw air into his heaving lungs, Bull muttered, “You wear a ring.”

“I wear a half dozen of them,” Dorian snarled, wiggling his fingers in Bull’s face.

“So this means you’re not married?”

Dorian’s eyes widened before narrowing to slits, then before Bull could do something stupid like mention out loud just how sexy he found the low growl Dorian was currently making, Dorian stretched up to grasp one of his horns and tugged Bull’s head down sharply. Before Bull could voice a complaint, Dorian’s lips were on his and then it was Bull’s turn to growl, his hand wrapping around Dorian’s waist and pulling the mage impossibly closer as he took control of the kiss. 

Dorian’s taste sweeter than Bull had imagined he would, all those sinewy muscles going pliant in his arms as Dorian’s hold on his horn changed from punishing to soft stroking, Bull’s teeth nipping at the mage’s plump lower lip until Dorian gasped softly, allowing Bull’s tongue to sweep in and taste deeper. A second growl was pulled from somewhere deep in Bull’s chest and vibrated through to Dorian who wrapped his other arm around the back of Bull’s neck, fingers playing with the tip of Bull’s ear in a way that drove the warrior crazy.

“Uhm...Chief…”

Krem’s hesitantly spoken words had Dorian pulling back as though he’d been burnt, the mage’s cheeks almost as red as his kiss swollen lips. “Kaffas, I can’t believe you mauled me in public in the middle of the day.”  “Uh, hate to break it to you ‘Vint, but you kissed me first,” Bull chuckled, liking the way Dorian looked all mussed, even if he was hissing like an annoyed cat.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “As though it could be _my_ fault that you jumped to ridiculous conclusions and I was forced to correct you.”

Bull shrugged. “If you always correct me like that I may be forced to jump to conclusions more often.”

“You are... _impossible_ ,” Dorian snapped, his attempt to stomp away thwarted when Bull grabbed his hand and held tight.

“But I’m _your_ bit of impossible,” Bull clarified with a disarming little grin, breathing a soft sigh of relief as Dorian deflated right in front of him. Daring to tug the mage closer again, Bull laid his hand on Dorian’s cheek. “And for the record I’m sorry for not asking you sooner, I just really didn’t think I wanted to hear the answer.”

Dorian scoffed and shook his head, opting to explain before he could convince himself not to. “I bought the ring myself, the same day I left my Father’s house for the last time. It was...and is…a reminder of what he tried to do to me. ...Not that I’m likely to forget, mind you.” 

“You father’s a fool,” Bull grumbled, his thumb brushing over the silver band. “And apparently so am I.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian replied, something that sounded suspiciously like fondness in his voice, “I suppose there is hope of redemption...for you at least.” Bull chuckled softly.

“That so?”

The challenge had Dorian huffing “We shall see,” before looking around at the rapidly growing crowd. He cleared his throat and straightened, adding: “-though perhaps somewhere less crowded, next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again ALL MY THANKS to Cyber_Fairie and Little_Abyss for being the best betas/cheerleaders/friends a girl could ask for!


End file.
